Monday, June 15, 2020

Might A Brain Whisper?


the feeling is unborn or dormant where buds don’t blossom. the pond is dry. we see frogs. we hear city lights. such a vanished presence, if to give to hearts, while measures seem ineffective. by patient souls to retrieve something hoped for while many try to vitiate or abolish faith. I can’t receive in order to live I must give in order by humanity.     (I sought essence even ousia if but to value something solicited; by inlet soul or sunlit ambition where reality was dependent.) I wrung emotion so unsung by emotion to live, eat or pray emotion. so dear to me so rough on me while we’re both responsible. such years in religion such silence resonating religion or cured so falsely through religion. (our towerman our empty streets as long as I stay by religion.) I drift to a moment, where she asked a question, where she shrugged at its answer; or to sudden a spark or to mystify a room or to spray linguistics. if hailed as persistence, or receiving deference, would a man accrue something human? the lilt of its features or dynamite below its surface or that man estranged from normality. if but stricken by pain, as a woman spoke to a tree, while she waited for its answer; or a man screaming about Jesus, even a threat to himself, as he managed to stop traffic on Wilshire: arms flailing or hands wailing, as legs or torso demanded their determined crucifixion. I tried to ignore it. but it cut gristle. while the passers were struck by fear. such a primitive locator or a sudden upheaval or something once alive its difficult to exist: those strange eyes those carrying sentences while one must live in absence. such false structure such a fragile reality where anything might be taken. by idol is meant perception. by totem is meant our categories. or by noetic one means properties in our brains. such particle telepathy so subtle as an afterthought to mistaken a coincidence or dismiss familiar sequences. but sweet/sour candy such as seen to regard it as nonconsequential. our otic lectures or emotional tugs where we see something unscrewing itself: those delicate palms, their deeper requirements, while one might let go to embrace happiness.            

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...